


probably the love of your life

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from a tumblr prompt: </p>
<p>"Harry is Collette and they've known each other ages and Nick's always talking about him and everyone thinks they should be/are dating but for some reason they're not, and then the team brings Harry and Puppy in to surprise Nick and they're introduced as "probably the love of your life" and Nick's so happy both of them are there and then *bam* sudden feelings and tings!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	probably the love of your life

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, jan. 2014 
> 
> come say hello [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com)!

Nick scrolls through his phone, until Dianna Agron says, “Okay, stop.” 

Alright, then. Nick flicks surreptitiously past some girl named Hannah he knew at uni and says, “Well, it’s landed on my good friend Harry Styles. Now, we talk about Harry on the show quite a bit. He’s from Manchester, I actually used to babysit him when he was a kid, and now he lives in London, he moved here last year.” 

“Hmm,” Dianna says, thoughtfully. “How old is he?" 

"He’s nineteen,” Nick says, making a thinky face at her. “What could we say to young Harry?" 

"You used to babysit him, so like, you know his mom?” Dianna says, raising her eyebrows. “You could say, like, his mom called you and said something weird-" 

"Yeah, like, his mum called and said she’s worried about him and wants him to move back home,” Nick says excitedly. “Oh, he’ll hate that." 

"That’s good, that’s good." 

"Alright, should we call little Harry and tell him his mummy’s worried about his big bad life in London?” Nick says, half-laughing, sliding his phone across to Finchy. 

Matt takes it, hooks it up to radio and points at Nick once it starts ringing. 

Harry answers after four rings, sounding sleepy. It is only nine in the morning. 

“Lo?" 

"Haz?” Nick says. “You awake? It’s Grim." 

Harry yawns audibly. “Yeah, what’s up, you alright?” 

"Good, how are you, what ya doin?" 

"Sleeping,” Harry says, in his low morbid voice. “Idiot." 

Dianna puts a hand over her mouth, laughing. Nick rolls his eyes at her.

"Well I called, Haz, coz - god, I don’t really know how to say this, I don’t want to be, you know, in the middle. But your mum called me." 

Harry sounds more alert. “Why?” 

"Well. She’s worried about you, and she - god, this is so embarrassing. She sort of wants to, like, pay me to mind you? Like back when you were a kid? She’s really worried you’re like, not eating properly and all that." 

"Wottttt?” Harry mumbles, and Nick shoots Dianna a delighted look.

“I know, it’s so weird. So, like, first she wanted me to convince you to move back up north. She was, like,  _oh, he’s not doing well in London, I can tell, he sounds tired and all_ , and I was telling her that you’re-“ 

"I’m fine!” Harry says indignantly. 

“Well, that’s what I told her! So, she basically said, like, I’ll pay you if you check up on him, and like. Cook for him, and stuff?" 

"You can’t bloody cook,” Harry snaps. “What’s she on about?" 

Matt laughs silently to himself, already editing out the curse. 

"Don’t know, do I!” Nick says, grinning, keeping his voice serious. “I guess, she’s like, quite a bit worried? But she asked me not to tell you, but like, you’re my mate, you know?" 

"That’s so - that’s  _such_  crap,” Harry says, vehemently. He actually sounds quite upset, and Nick would feel bad, but that’s the nature of the game. “I can’t believe she- that’s so unfair, Nick.” 

"I know, darling,” Nick says, clamping down on a hysterical laugh. “I can totally ring her and tell her, like, no  _way_. If you want.” 

"I’ll do it,” Harry says, tense, worried. “I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell me she thinks I’m, like- ugh. God. I’ll ring you back, Grimmy, yeah?" 

"Yeah, talk to you soon,” Nick says, wincing at Dianna. She’s listening wide-eyed. “Okay, have a good day, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, and rings off. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Nick snorts with laughter. “Oh my  _god_.” 

“He sounded so worried!” Dianna says pitifully, even as she laughs. “Oh my god, he’s so cute! Poor kid!" 

"I should probably text before he goes off on his mum,” Nick says, laughing, taking his phone back from Finchy. “Oh my  _god_ , I’m sorry, darling Harry. Ohh, he’s so defensive about that, I’m such a terrible friend. Right, should we do one off your phone, Dianna Agron?” 

"Let’s do it,” Dianna says, and Nick swipes open his phone as she scrolls, quickly types to Harry: 

_HAZ it was a windup for radio don’t ring poor anne hahahahaha_

Harry texts back five minutes later, while Dianna is explaining to her hairstylist exactly  _why_  she wants to dye her hair pitch black and start wearing a mullet. 

_Nick!!!!!!! I hate you_ , Harry writes, and then-  _you’re the worst_

But then he sends an embarrassed-face emoji and the little bloody syringe and the broken heart, so Nick supposes they’re alright. 

—

When Nick gets home from work, Harry’s lounging on his sofa with crisp crumbs all over him and the telly on. He’s only wearing pants, as is his custom. Cheeky little nudist. 

“You’re horrible,” he says when Nick unlocks his door. 

“You’re getting crumbs all over my sofa,” Nick says, dropping his bag and kicking his shoes off. He’s exhausted, and right now curling up with Harry Styles on his sofa and watching hours of shitty telly sounds absolutely perfect. 

Harry just sticks out his tongue, holds out the packet as Nick collapses down next to him. 

“How was work?” Harry says, as Nick shoves a handful of salt and vinegar crisps in his mouth. 

“Fine,” Nick says. “Called my friend, he was bloody gullible, you know-" 

Harry hits his thigh and says, “Ooh, X Factor reruns. Shh.” 

"Wasn’t saying anything,” Nick grumbles, but he settles in and shuts up. 

He falls asleep on the sofa at some point, and Harry wakes him up around six with a kiss on the cheek. 

“Going to a gig,” he says softly, fully-dressed now in black jeans and a faded too-big tee shirt. “No, don’t wake up, s’alright." 

His face is silhouetted in late-afternoon sunshine, and Nick blinks sleepily at him. 

"Good luck,” he says hoarsely. 

“Thanks.” Harry pats his chest. “Go back to sleep, Grimmy." 

Nick mumbles something and turns over, presses his face into the back of the sofa. 

Faintly, he hears the door snick shut behind him. 

——

**A YEAR BEFORE**

Harry moves to London on a dreary Thursday. It isn’t a good day for moving- isn’t a good day for anything except maybe cuddling up with a fuck-buddy for hours and eating copious amounts of carbs in bed, but Harry looks so fucking happy anyway. 

Nick goes over there to help. Most of the family had come down, for Harry’s trek - Anne and Gemma, at least, while Harry’s stepdad stayed up in Oldham. Gemma’s poking around Harry’s flat, making disgusted noises and squealing when she thinks she sees a roach, and Anne is getting just slightly weepy, hanging onto Harry’s shoulder. 

"You don’t have to, baby, you know that,” she’s saying, right when Nick arrives. 

“Hiya!"Nick calls, faux-knocking on the half-open door, and Harry turns to face him, his face breaking out into a bright grin. 

"Nick!” He wraps Nick in a hug, and Nick gives him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Hey, Haz, long time no see. Excited, are ya?" 

Harry nods, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes. 

"Look at my flat!” he says, gesturing demonstratively. “Isn’t it amazing?" 

"It’s a complete tip,” Gemma says knowingly, pulling a face and giving Nick a kiss. “Hi, Grimmy." 

"Hiya love.” She walks off again, and Nick slings an arm around Anne’s shoulder. “So, the bird’s leaving the nest, eh?" 

"Only because you’re here,” Anne says, gnawing her fingernails as Harry and Gemma run off to inspect the tiny bedroom. “Don’t let him die, Nick. He could get kidnapped. He could get mugged! You got mugged last year, didn’t you?" 

"Barely,” Nick says dismissively, though he’d cried like a baby when his wallet got nicked on the tube last summer. “Don’t you fret. Harry’ll be fine." 

"I told him he could wait a year,” Anne says, letting out an anxious huff of breath. “I told him he could stay at home for a bit, but you know how he is, hard-headed as anything." 

"That’ll be good, here,” Nick says, nodding. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him." 

"Nick!” Harry yells, peeking his head around the bedroom doorway. “C’mere! You  _have_  to see this.” 

Nick snorts, gives Anne a comforting squeeze, and follows Harry inside. 

"He’ll be alright!” he calls behind him, Anne still clutching herself in the doorway, looking like she’d bolt any minute and take Harry with her back to Oldham. 

“I’ll be alright, mum!” Harry sings, giving Nick a dimply grin and throwing himself on his tiny creaky bed, open and happy. Nick laughs, helplessly. 

—

And it  _is_  alright, Harry in London. Harry just- fits. He gets a job right away, at a coffee shop two blocks from the Beeb. He works four days a week and spent most of the evenings with Nick in studio, lurking in the corner and throwing popcorn at him and giggling so loud Nick’s producer often has to give him a smack. He does open mics when he can, finds some peppy Irish kid named Niall on Craigslist, who plays guitar and is unhealthily fond of Justin Bieber covers. They’re actually alright. Nick goes to a few of their performances, in grotty little cafes. 

Gemma needn’t have worried about the state of Harry’s flat, because about a week into it, Harry starts sleeping at Nick’s. 

“It’s easier,” he says, blinking his long lashes at Nick and grinning beseechingly. “I can go into work with you, it’s waaay easier. Please, Grimmy, s’not like you don’t have the room." 

Which is true. Nick had recently upgraded to a very nice flat on Primrose Hill, courtesy of the BBC and his new inflated salary. There’s a guest room, small but cosy, which Harry takes over as his own in about a minute flat. 

Harry’s good with Nick’s friends - slips seamlessly into Nick’s clique with the sort of ease Nick envies. Nick likes people and people tend to like him back, but even he couldn’t immediately get everyone to fall in love with him. Harry has a certain set of - assets, that Nick lacks. Nick would blame it on not being eighteen anymore, but he can admit he’s never looked like Harry. 

The dimples, see. They’re bloody  _deadly_. Paired with Harry’s easy laugh and his sweet genuine concern for the boring daily minutiae of everyone’s lives, well, no one really stands a chance. 

—-

"I’m putting money on it,” Aimee announces at brunch one day, halfway through a pitcher of mimosas. Nick’s wearing very dark sunglasses, and he shushes her, rubs pitifully at his temples. 

“On what?” Henry drawls. He’s not hungover somehow, even though Nick definitely spotted him taking a shot off the sculpted abs of some teenage model last night. Nick really hates him. 

“On Harry. I’ll bet ten quid Grimmy’ll fuck him within the month." 

"Ooh, I’ll take it!” Henry says brightly, as Nick says, “I’m sorry,  _what_?” 

"He’s fucking  _hot_ , don’t tell me you don’t see it,” Aimee says, while doing some complicated handshake with Henry over her omelet. 

"He’s literally an infant." 

"He’s eighteen, he’s legal. Come on, Grimmy, you’ve thought about it! He fucking adores you." 

"I- no,” Nick says vehemently, draining his glass in one gulp. “I used to bloody babysit him, Aimee. I washed the sheets after he pissed the bed as a four-year-old. That’s wrong on so many levels." 

"Kinky,” Henry says, laughing. “Would you wash his sheets now?" 

"Oh god.” Nick drops his head. 

“He’s all grown-up, Grimmy,” Aimee says beseechingly, squeezing his hand on the table. “He’s such a doll, come on. I think he’d be good for you, actually." 

"His mum would stab me in my sleep,” Nick says, snorting out a laugh. “Drive straight down from Oldham and go completely homicidal." 

"Doesn’t she, like, adore you?" 

"She adores for me for taking care of her kid-" 

"So, take care of him in bed!” Henry suggests, and breaks into giggles. Aimee buries her laugh in her mimosa. 

“This is not happening and we are not talking about it,” Nick says firmly. Of course, his friends don’t listen to a word he says, and the rest of brunch conversation revolves around Harry and his dimples and his obvious crush on Nick. Nick tunes it out and tucks into his poached egg. He’s not a  _pervert_. 

—

He doesn’t think about it - because again, not perverted - until a month later, when he comes home from a DJ gig to find Harry sprawled on Nick’s sofa with some leggy dark-haired boy, snogging furiously. 

Nick raises his eyebrows and slams his front door a little harder than necessary, but Harry doesn’t look guilty or naught. Just lifts his head slow, twisting around from where he’s sat on this boy’s lap. 

“Hi Grimmy,” he says, a little dazedly, licking his bottom lip. The boy - who is in fact bloody gorgeous, all caramel-colored skin and long lush eyelashes - gives Nick a scowl. Nick would blame him, but he’d be annoyed too, if someone distracted Harry while he was doing what he was doing. 

Not that Nick’s thinking about it. 

“You have a guest room, Haz, why don’t you use it?” Nick says tightly, trying to seem in control here. 

“This is Zayn,” Harry says cheerfully, like Nick didn’t even say anything. “Zayn, this is my mate Nick, he lives here." 

The boy gives a nod of greeting. One of his hands is curled around Harry’s narrow waist. Nick can see a slice of pale soft skin under Harry’s t-shirt.

"Zayn goes to UAL!” Harry explains, even though Nick didn’t ask. “He does painting." 

Oh god, an art school boy. Nick’s been there. “That’s nice,” he says politely. “Alright, kiddos, clear out now, yeah?” 

"Yeah, sorry,” Zayn say. His voice is low, with a twang of Yorkshire. 

“Nick used to be my babysitter,” Harry says, sliding off Zayn’s lap and into his side, reaching for the half-empty bottle of wine that’s sat at the coffee table in front of them. The little  _tart_ , stealing Nick’s wine. 

“Really?” Nick can’t tell if Zayn’s amused or confused or what. The kid is gorgeous, but he’s not got much in the way of facial expression variety. 

Harry nods, as he takes a deep gulp straight from the bottle. 

“We’re both Northern,” he says, and then winks at Nick, his mouth ruby-red and slick from wine and kissing. “Nick’s my minder here in London. Right, Nick?" 

"I am seriously considering sending you straight home,” Nick says, clenching his hand in the hem of his shirt and thinking very very unsexy thoughts. He feels old, right then, with Harry tipsy and pliant and cheeky on Nick’s sofa, practically begging for a smack. God, he’s too young to be a father. “Now clear out or go into your room." 

Harry puts the bottle of wine down, tugs at Zayn’s hand and says, “It’s the second room on the left. I’ll meet you in there, yeah?” 

Zayn gives a wide-eyed look to Nick, and then shrugs, stands up and disappears down the hall. 

Harry walks over to Nick - saunters, maybe, but Nick’s not in the business of applying certain words to a child like Harry Styles - and sets the bottle of wine down on the counter, right behind Nick. 

He smiles, slow, eyes luminous in the half-light from the kitchen. Nick draws in a shuddery breath, cursing puberty. Harry Styles has certainly hit the jackpot, and it’s both unfair and maddening. 

"I’ll try and keep quiet,” Harry says, licking his bottom lip. “You know, when he fucks me.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Nick breathes, scandalized. 

Harry grins again. “Good night, Grimmy,” he says, innocent, and gives Nick a soft, slow kiss on the cheek. 

Then he’s gone, and Nick staggers back against the counter. Oh, fuck. 

—-

Harry doesn’t do it again. Maybe it was a test of some kind - to see how far he could push Nick. Or maybe, Nick thinks sadly, to see exactly how much Nick’s wrapped round Harry’s little finger. The kid really is spoiled. 

When Nick first got to London he lived in a truly awful bedsit and fucked people of an appropriate stature and appearance for his status in life, not bloody Greek gods with legs for days. God, a mouse crawled inside his boxers once, and Harry’s living large in Primrose Hill. It’s bloody unfair. 

Of course, not everything can go right, even for people like Harry Styles. 

A month and a half later, Nick’s in bed on a Thursday - nice and early, as befitting his new gig as Breakfast Show host. He’s not used to the sleep schedule yet, nor the dizzying fact that he’s actually landed his dream job, so he’s lying there awake when he hears his front door creak open. 

He sits upright, body tensing, and fumbles for his phone. 

He’s not sure what good that’ll do - summon an airborne missile? A quick call to the coppers? - but then his bedroom door opens and Harry slinks inside. 

Nick heaves a breath. “Fuck, you scared me.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just crawls into bed, and when he gets closer Nick catches a glimpse of his tear-stained cheeks, his downturned mouth. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?" 

Harry puts his face into Nick’s shoulder and lets out a small hitch of a sob.

"Oh, god,” Nick breathes, curling one hand around Harry’s back and reaching up to turn his lamp on with the other. “What’s wrong, darling?" 

Harry says something like  _mmfgh_ , incoherent into Nick’s tee-shirt. 

Nick draws Harry’s face back gently by the chin, touches his damp cheek. Harry blinks pitifully up at him. 

"What happened?" 

Harry swallows, swipes a hand over his eyes. 

"Zayn and I split up,” he says, and his face caves in again as he sobs. 

“Oh god, babe, shh, shh,” Nick mumbles, pulling him in again. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s such shit. I’m sorry, kid." 

Never mind that he hadn’t actually known Zayn and Harry were properly together. He thought they were just shagging. But that’s not important, not when Harry’s curled-up crying in Nick’s bed. 

Harry does a bit more weeping, snotting all over Nick’s shirt like it’s a giant tissue, and Nick strokes his back, hushes him. Eventually Harry pulls back just slightly and fumbles on the nightstand for an actual Kleenex. He blows his nose hard. 

"Poor love,” Nick says quietly, squeezing Harry’s skinny thigh. “I know that hurts." 

"I think my heart’s broken,” Harry says, in the smallest saddest voice Nick’s ever heard. He throws the Kleenex towards the bin. It misses, but Nick doesn’t say anything.

“That’ll happen,” Nick murmurs. “And it’s complete and total shit." 

"I just - I want to be with him, and he, he doesn’t, he doesn’t-" 

Harry dissolves into tears again, and Nick sighs. He strips his mucus-y shirt off, grabs the box of Kleenex, and tugs Harry up to sit against the headboard. 

"Here, doll, let me make you a cuppa, yeah?" 

Harry nods through a sob. 

Nick grabs another shirt on his way out to the kitchen, makes Harry a cup of the peppermint herbal shit he likes, and then slumps against the fridge. It’s eleven PM- not horribly late, but later than Nick’s supposed to be awake. Harry Styles is heartbroken and weeping in his bed, and Nick’s a completely shit friend if he doesn’t get him through this. His first break-up in London - ugh, what a trial. Nick got his heart broken in uni by a rugby player named Charles who never spoke to Nick in public, just shagged him silly for six months and then got a girlfriend one day. It was horrible. 

When he gets back to the room Harry’s calmed down a bit. 

He takes the tea from Nick, giving him a weak smile. “Thanks.” 

"Of course,” Nick says, sitting down next to him and hiding a yawn in his elbow. “Do you want to talk about it? Or not yet?" 

"Not yet,” Harry says, stubbornly, taking another sip of tea. 

“Alright.” Nick pretzels his legs and sits there, quietly. It’s always odd, being on the sidelines of someone else’s heartbreak. 

Harry seems content to sit in silence, so that’s what they do, for a good twenty minutes. Harry makes that cup of tea last for  _ages_. 

“Sorry,” Harry says eventually, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I know you have - you have work in the morning." 

"S’alright,” Nick says tiredly. “Don’t fret. It’s not the latest I’ve stayed up before the show." 

"I just hate when people don’t want me,” Harry says unexpectedly, low into the quiet room. 

Nick looks at him. 

“That’s normal,” he says, and Harry interrupts him. 

”- but I just, I hate it. You do it. People say shit about you and the show and you just brush it off like it’s nothing. I can’t - I just -“ 

He stops, frustrated. 

“There’s a difference between people writing snippy things on Twitter and actually getting dumped, Harry,” Nick says, touching the top of Harry’s hand. “It’s alright to be sad." 

Harry nods, rubbing his knuckles in his eyes like a toddler. “I know.” 

"I know it hurts, but it’ll pass eventually,” Nick says. “I promise." 

Harry slips down into bed, pulls Nick down with him. 

"Promise?” he whispers. 

Nick’s breath catches in his throat. That’s definitely Harry’s thigh between his, warm, pressing forward.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing Harry back just slightly. Harry doesn’t say anything, just puts his face into Nick’s pillow. 

“Good night,” he says. 

“Night,” Nick says faintly, and before he can overanalyze, he falls asleep.

—-

Gemma comes down to London a few weeks later, and Harry begs Nick to let her stay in his guest room. 

They have a little do on the Friday night she gets in - Nick has his mates over and Harry brings Niall and Niall’s flatmate Louis, who looks around Nick’s house with a raised eyebrow and says coolly, “Posh, innit?” 

Harry just slaps the back of Louis’ head and then throws himself into Niall’s arms, squeals, “You came!” 

Gemma comes up behind Nick, puts a hand on his back. 

“Nice place, Grimshaw,” she says, sipping something clear. “I see you’ve let my brother move in. Little leech, isn’t he?" 

Her voice is fond. 

"It’s the dimples,” Nick says, hushed, and she nods conspiratorially. 

“I know. My mum has never once punished him in his entire bloody life. It’s disgusting." 

"Well, you couldn’t, could you?” Nick says, and realizes he’s too late he’s smiling, fond and helpless. Shit, it’s only nine. He needs to slow down on the wine. 

Gemma’s watching him knowingly. 

“You know,” she says. “Like. I might be way off base here, but if you and Harry ever, you know-" 

"What,” Nick says, horrified, a flush already spreading down his neck. “What?" 

"You know.” She pokes him. “I’m just saying." 

"He’s a child." 

"He’s nineteen,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “And he’s fancied you for years. I wouldn’t mind, you know. Nor would mum. Wait, you haven’t already - have you?" 

"Good god, Gemma, no,” Nick says quickly, his tongue feeling thick and dumb in his mouth. Harry. Fancying him.  _Harry_. Oh, that’s something Nick needs to put in a box in his mind and never think about again. 

“Alright, well. It’s just a thought. God, take a breath, Grimmy, you look like you’re going to pass out." 

Nick sputters indignantly. 

"He adores you,” Gemma says, squeezing his arm. “Always has. Bit of a romantic, our Haz, yeah?" 

"I can’t have this conversation,” Nick says truthfully, and when he near-runs away for a refill she doesn’t follow him. 

He gets properly pissed-  _not_  because of Harry. Just for fun, because he’s not yet thirty, he still deserves to have fun. 

When he staggers to bed at half past two, he stops in at the guest room. Gemma and Harry are sleeping back to back, Gemma’s hair all over her face and Harry snoring. 

Nick watches them, swaying a little, and then goes solemnly to bed. Something’s lurking at the edge of his consciousness, some realization about Harry, but he’s too drunk to think of it. 

—-

“We’ve invited  _probably_  the love of your life onto the show - but before you get excited, it’s not Paul Rudd.” 

"Oh shut  _up_ ,” Nick groans. 

"But anyway. We’ve invited some very special people to the show, Nicholas, in honor of Happiness Week, and we’re going to bring them in." 

"Wait wait wait, don’t- is it going to freak me out?”

Matt rolls his eyes hard. “It won’t freak you out. It’s a  _nice_  surprise.” 

“Wait-  oh god. I haven’t even had a shower this morning. If it really is the love of my life, I’m going to be furious." 

"It’s a nice surprise!” Matt says, already looking like he regrets it. “Alright, let’s open the door." 

"Oh god, alright,” Nick says, putting a hand over his face, and the door opens, and - oh. Of course. 

Nick goes a brilliant red, and says, “Ohhh!” into mic. 

It’s Harry, carrying Puppy and grinning a mile wide. 

“Oh, look at this!” Nick says, clenching his hand on his thigh under the table. “It’s my dear darling friend Harry, and my dearest darlingest Puppy! Hi, Harry!" 

"Hiiii,” Harry trills into the mic, as Puppy licks all over his chin. He’s wearing a navy beanie and tight jeans and a smug expression, and Nick can’t stop grinning. Happiness Week, indeed. 

“We thought we’d bring the love of Nick’s life in for a nice visit,” Matt says. “Of course I’m referring to Puppy, not to Nick’s flatmate Harry-" 

"He’s not my flatmate,” Nick says, rolling his eyes, and Harry says, “Heyyy. Am too.”

“Are you happy, Harry? Happy that you’ve made Nick happy?” Fiona says wickedly. 

“I’m always happy when Nick’s happy,” Harry says, with that horrid little grin he get when he’s  _maybe_ being serious. It’s awful, really.

“Aww, you’re too kind, Harry. So to recap, Harry is now in studio, along with little Puppy, who’s curled up in Matt Fincham’s big strong arms. How do you like holding Puppy, Matt? Do you feel happy?" 

"I do, yeah,” Matt says, as Puppy nips at his fingers and he winces. He hands her over to Harry, who cuddles her easily, smiles at Nick. Nick can’t keep eye contact for too long. Boy’s like the bloody  _sun_ sometimes, it’s physically painful. 

“Well, good. See, I’ve googled ‘do dogs make you happy’, and it looks like- uh. Yeah! So I think if you are struggling with happiness, in January, just- get a dog? No, I’m joking, don’t just go get a dog. I like that there’s a flock of women at the door waiting to see - well, Puppy  _or_  Harry, they’re both quite exciting to see.” 

Harry gives Nick a wink over Puppy’s head, and Fiona snorts. 

"Well, anyway,” Nick says hastily. “We’ve got Puppy in studio which is very  _very_  exciting, but we’ve got to go to the news with Chris Smith, so-“

Puppy yips as Yasmin scratches her head.

"Stop barking, Puppy, let me do my job,” Nick laughs. “Alright, here’s the news." 

He takes his headphones off, beckons for his dog, and Harry brings her over. 

"Morning,” he says, dipping down to give Nick a kiss on the cheek. 

“Morning, you menace.” Nick ruffles his hair. “How long have you known about this?" 

"Just since yesterday,” Harry says with a very effective forgive-me pout. “Were you surprised?" 

"Completely." 

"Good." 

"Nick, you have a minute,” Matt calls, and Harry flicks Nick’s nose and says softly, “Want me to take Puppy?" 

"Nah, I can do a link with her, thanks love,” Nick mumbles, picking up the piece of paper Fiona’s just slid over. On the front is what he’s supposed to introduce, and then there’s an arrow pointing to the backside of the paper. 

Nick flips the paper over. 

_H + N SITTING IN TREE K-I-S-S-I-N-G_ , Fiona’s written, and Nick instinctively covers it from the cameras with his hand and shoots her a dirty look. 

She just smirks. 

—-

After the show they go out for lunch, sitting outside a cafe with Puppy on her lead. 

Harry digs into his turkey-brie sandwich and chatters on about the show and how fun it was and how surprised Nick was and on and on. Nick chews morosely on his salad and feeds Puppy a crisp or two and tries to parse the thick, sinking feeling in his stomach. 

It’s Happiness Week, but he feels a bit like he’s swallowed a lead weight. 

“Nick?” Harry says, bumping their feet together under the table. “You alright?" 

"Yeah, I’m fine,” Nick says, ducking his head and letting Puppy lick his salty fingers. “Just tired." 

"You weren’t mad about the surprise, were you?” Harry asks hesitantly. “I wanted to tell you. But, you know. Matt thought it’d be funny-”

His voice does a little tremble at the end and Nick looks up, shakes himself out of his funk. Harry is peering at him, wide-eyed, and there’s a dark curl escaping from under his beanie. 

“It was good,” Nick says, forcing a smile. “I’m not mad, Haz, it was really funny." 

Harry chews his lip, unconvinced. “You’re acting weird,” he says.  

"Am not." 

"Are too,” Harry says right back. Nick knows better than to start a primary-school fight with him. He’ll drag it out for ages. 

Nick reaches across the table, scratches at the palm of Harry’s upturned hand with his fingernails, gently. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Honest." 

Harry’s fingers clench around Nick’s, and he looks down at their hands, then up, at Nick, a quiet pleased look on his face.

He’s so fucking  _pretty_. Nick’s known it for ages, but he’s so used to immediately wiping it out of his mind that it’s hard to just sit and take it in. 

Harry is pretty, and he’s still holding Nick’s hand. Harry fixes him lunch after the show, Harry watches shit telly with him and never moves a muscle when Nick falls asleep on his shoulder. Harry’s nineteen and gorgeous and in London on his own, and he could be with anyone,  _anyone_ , and he’s - here with Nick. 

Oh. Oh bloody bleeding  _fuck_. Nick’s in love with him. 

He yanks his hand back hard and knocks over a glass of water, narrowly missing Puppy’s head. It shatters everywhere, of course, and Puppy eagerly starts licking at the pavement before Nick scoops her up, shaking, inspects her little doggy tongue for glass cuts. 

"No, no, Puppy,” he says, his whole face burning. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Shit." 

"S’alright, I’ll go get the waitress,” Harry says, standing up.

He disappears inside, and Nick holds Puppy with one hand and ineffectively dabs at the tabletop with his serviette, his stomach churning. He’s in love with Harry. Oh god, Aimee’s going to take the piss forever. 

And Harry - what if Harry doesn’t - fuck, he used to  _babysit the kid_. 

But even as he thinks it, the excuse feels tired, overdone. Maybe that’s what it’s been all along- an excuse. 

Well, what’s he supposed to do now? Nick’s shit at being in love with people. He’s only done it twice, and both times ended in a complete fiery inferno. 

If that happened with Harry, Nick couldn’t  _bear_  it. 

He’s worked himself up into a proper panic by the time Harry comes back, explaining the whole situation to a waitress who looks utterly charmed. 

”- so it broke, a bit,” Harry says. “I’m  _so_ sorry, it was totally my fault-“ 

“It’s okay,” the waitress says, flushing. “It’s like, my job. So, er, no worries.”

“Thanks, love,” Harry says, and she near melts, before she snaps out of it and starts cleaning the mess. 

“Alright?” Harry says quietly, touching the small of Nick’s back in a calm, assured way befitting someone twice his age. It’s unsettling. Harry’s grown up, somehow, in the past year and a half of living in London, and Nick’s just noticing now. 

Oh, he’s so gone. It’s awful. 

“I’m fine,” he says, instead of,  _I want to kiss you_. His voice does a little crack at the end, but Harry just smiles at him and says, “Let’s go home.” 

—

Harry turns twenty just two weeks later, and Nick throws him a proper party. They go to a club, get Harry pissed, and then everyone comes back to Nick’s and sprawls over every surface, drinking and dancing and shmoozing. It’s nice, and Harry hangs off Nick’s arm the whole time, says  _thank you_  about a million times, voice starting to slip deeper as he keeps pouring shots down his throat. 

Around three, the party’s still going strong, but Nick’s slipped out to the back steps for a fag. He’s sat on the step, drunkenly mesmerized by the clouds of smoke he keeps puffing out of his mouth - smoking is  _amazing_ - when the door opens behind him. 

“There you are,” Harry slurs, taking a shaky step out onto the step. 

“Here I am,” Nick says back, as Harry sinks down next to him and beckons for the cigarette. 

Harry sucks hard on it and then hands it back, puts his head on Nick’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” he says. “For the party." 

"Course, darling,” Nick mumbles around the fag.

“No,  _honestly_ ,” Harry says insistently, and - yes, that’s Harry’s hand on his thigh. 

Harry blinks at him, music vibrating muffled from inside, and Nick gives a helpless shiver. Even drunk and sleep-deprived, Harry Styles is a fucking sight to see. 

"I mean it,” Harry says, chewing his bottom lip. “And I. You know. I - uh." 

"It’s okay,” Nick says quickly, terror flashing hot in his gut. “No need to thank me, really-" 

"Shut upppp,” Harry says softly. “Nick. Trying to tell you something." 

"But you’re drunk, and I’m drunk,” Nick says dumbly. “We’re drunk. Don’t tell me things when I’m drunk.”

“I’ll tell you again when I’m sober.” Harry smiles at him, squinty-eyed. “Wait, listen. I just, um. Fuck, I’m so smashed." 

He giggles, puts his face into Nick’s shoulder. “Shit.” 

"You should get to bed,” Nick says, and Harry looks up, says, “Will you take me?" 

"Alright,” Nick says, faintly disappointed. “Up you get-”

“No, I- shit. I mean, when I’m sober. Will you, will you take me to bed?" 

His voice gives a quaver, and Nick doesn’t have the faintest idea of what to say, so he just- laughs. Harry blinks at him. 

"That a chat-up line?” Nick asks, voice high and panicky. “Who’s that worked on, eh?" 

Harry’s eyebrows furrow annoyedly, and then he says, “Right, fuck it, you’re hopeless,” and - 

Leans in, kisses Nick square on the mouth. 

Nick lets out a soft surprised gasp into Harry’s mouth- his warm, wet, soft mouth, oh  _shit_  - and then shudders, opens up. The kiss turns hot and sloppy right away, half because they’re pissed and half because Nick wants so  _much_  it’s painful. It’s been ages coming, and now that he has it, it’s so - 

"Fuck,” he breathes, as Harry squeezes his thigh so tight it’s painful. “Harry-" 

"Shh,” Harry mumbles, slipping his tongue into Nick’s mouth again, shutting him up. 

Nick loses track of time, inside the kiss. He’s only conscious of the warm slick of Harry’s tongue in his mouth, the plush of his lips. Heat is pooling at the bottom of his stomach, and when Harry moves his hand from Nick’s thigh to his crotch he lets out a low groan into Harry’s mouth. 

“That’s - oh, god,” he gasps, breaking away. “Wait, we’re drunk." 

"You can still get it up,” Harry observes, sounding impressed, cupping the line of Nick’s cock through his jeans. 

“That’s not what I mean, you - hey, hands off, you tart.” Nick laughs, feeling giddy, kisses Harry’s swollen mouth again. “We’re not shagging drunk, not for our first time. No." 

Harry nuzzles into Nick’s chin like a particularly drunk and affectionate cat. “Why not?” 

"Because,” Nick says, low, and then he leans into Harry’s ear, even though there’s no one out there with them. “Because I want you to be sober when I fuck you first. I want you to feel every fucking  _inch_.” 

Harry gives a startled shudder, says faintly, “Nick.” His eyes are hungry and dark. 

Nick sort of can’t believe he just said that out loud, but fuck it, he’s drunk. 

"Also,” he says, flushed, kissing the corner of Harry’s mouth, and then the curve of his jaw, and then down his neck. “Also I think I’m in love with you." 

Well. From dirty talk to a confession of love in under a minute. It’s a new record. 

Nick’s a little embarrassed, but it’s just Harry. 

Harry who’s leaning in, all bright gleaming eyes and slick mouth. 

"I think I’m in love with you too,” he says. Nick’s stomach does a pleased, frightened flop, and he has to kiss Harry right  _then_ , no matter what. 

Harry pulls back, letting out a soft breath. “I’ve been for ages,” he says. “Since I- since I moved here. Since I was sixteen, and you were on telly. Nick, Nick, fuck, I love you.” 

It’s painful, the sincerity in his voice. It makes Nick hurt to hear it, because Harry’s so fucking young, so open, and Nick can’t bear the thought of hurting him. 

“Yeah?” he says, roughly. 

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, kissing his mouth. “Yeah, for a long time. Can we go inside? Not to- shag. I want to - I want to sleep next to you." 

"You’re not real,” Nick informs him. “You’re like something I’ve made up. How are you real?" 

Harry dimples at him and tugs at his hand. “I’m real,” he says. 

Nick follows him inside, nearly scraping his shin on the step, but Harry tugs him up with a peal of laughter, says, “Careful, Grimmy.” 

It all hits him right then, when his head spins from standing up. This is happening. He’s getting it - everything he wants. 

"About bloody time,” he mutters, to whoever’s watching over them - whatever long-suffering god oversees boys who take ages to get their shit together - and Harry pulls him forward, his grip hot and solid. 


End file.
